(Cannes) “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Tom Hanks? Since we were at the world premiere party for Elvis of Baz Luhrmann, I didn’t dare ask him if he meant Tom Hanks as Colonel Parker, with his old pelican jowls. Nor did I ask “How old do you think I am?” I wouldn’t have caught the reference to the old Oil of Olay ad.
I’m not going to turn 50 this year yet. Tom Hanks will be 66 in a month and a half. When I walked right under my nose at the Palais des Festivals on Thursday at noon on my way to the press conference for Elvis (and me to the bathroom), he looked my way because two dozen photographers were yelling, “Tom! Thomas! Thomas! »? Or because he furtively recognized me as a double?
“God created 40 lookalikes for each person,” says the main character of sky boy by Tarik Saleh, a film presented in a competition a week ago. On the way to the baths, I also met Monia Chokri, a member of the short film jury, who was handing out her awards on Thursday night, then the entire Belgian film team. Close, my favorite of the Festival. But I digress.
“Yes sometimes. This is what I replied to the young woman I met near the bar of the Palais Stéphanie Beach, on the promenade near the Croisette, who asked me this question about Tom Hanks. It even happened to me in Cannes, directly on the red carpet, during the ascent of the stairs of the gala projection of Mommy by Xavier Dolan. Right, Julianne Cote?
Should I be flattered that a young woman finds me vaguely resembling an actor 17 years my senior who is not particularly renowned for the delicacy of his features simply because he has the distinction of being world famous? I’ll answer that first question with a second: Would you gentlemen like it to be implied that you have all the physical attributes of Forrest Gump? That’s what I thought.
What I did not specify is that this question, which was intended as a compliment – I think, in the context – was not disinterested. The young woman was waiting for her to calmly give her the bracelet that she identified me as a guest of this private party so that she could let a friend in.
I won’t tell you if I gave her my bracelet, more or less discreetly, risking aggravating the tendonitis I have in my index finger by compressing my hand to put it through a synthetic ring. It would be risky. I wouldn’t want anyone to resist offering me other party invitations in the future.
The young woman, however, thanked me for my valiant efforts and immediately offered to buy me a drink. She then laughed, a short, dry laugh, because the drinks were free, and she left immediately. Anyway, she had already had a Negroni and was looking at the exit.
He had arrived on the red carpet at the premiere ofElvisweaving in a zigzag between the actresses and their gala dresses, to the sound of blue suede shoes. I left the party fromElviswhere we served -in homage to a dubious taste- fries and hamburgers, when the DJ integrated the rhythm of town boy to the of tainted Love, like on 98.5 FM on Sundays. For not having heard any song of the King.
I won’t tell you if I still had my bracelet, but when I reached the top of the stairs, after walking the 300-meter red carpet to the exit, spied on by dozens of onlookers huddled against the fence hoping to see a star (and disappointed that he didn’t recognize Tom Hanks in me), he didn’t remember that the security guards usually cut off the wristbands at the exit of the parties. Fortunately, because I would have had cold sweats…
I walked into the party through a line of dozens of people trying to sneak in on the sole faith of their “I swear I’m on the list” or “I know so and so.” They didn’t have a magic bracelet. Another young woman, emerging from a small grove near the exit, asked if I would offer her mine.
I hardly go to this popular party. I’m not 50, but I’m not 20 anymore, as Charles Aznavour used to sing. I hastened to write my review of Elvis after the gala screening, it was almost midnight and my bed was giving me eye candy when I came out.
What convinced me was that I had missed the party they had at Albane’s for crimes of the future by David Cronenberg, two days earlier, for “I’m-too-old-to-go-to-parties-that-start-at-midnight.” I told myself that I had to kick my ass and that my more worldly readers had a right to know if Priscilla was still clubbing.
I wasn’t expecting a chance encounter with Sharon Stone, Kylie Minogue, Shakira, or Emmanuelle Béart – all seen on the red carpet – as much as a face-to-face with Tom Hanks, to who I could have finally popped the question. “Tell me, Tom, do you think we look alike?” »
I didn’t meet anyone I could recognize, not even Robert Lewandowski. The only one who spoke to me was this young woman who wanted my bracelet without buying me a drink.
“Humiliation is my engine,” I had prophetically told my colleagues in the To have to Y Sun, earlier in the day, telling them that a pen had leaked into my backpack and that it had stained, not only my notebooks and fingers, but in a way, I can’t explain, the collar of my white shirt. Me only White shirt. The one that I have to wear with a suit and the bow tie that I borrowed from my brother-in-law 15 years ago to aspire to be admitted to the Festival’s evenings and gala screenings.
I was reassured by the fact that my neighbor at the screening of Elvis sister of New York Times whom I often meet at festivals, hadn’t noticed the ink stain on my wrinkled shirt. She even complimented me on my blue suit and asked, perhaps jokingly, “whose is she?” Since I don’t always understand the irony, I replied.
Back from the party, on a more lively Croisette than usual in this year of “back to normality” at the Cannes Film Festival, gentlemen in suits with bow ties and ladies at night rubbed shoulders with young people in camisoles or t-shirts. . There were a few hundred at the Cinéma de la plage, transformed for the occasion into a giant karaoke, singing in chorus with Aznavour. “It seems to me that misery would be less painful under the sun…”
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